


baby, what's my sin?

by loyaulte_me_lie



Series: the heart is a muscle [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Musicals, Other, guess what song they sing, only slightly ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: Courfeyrac meets the love of his life at an open mic night in Edinburgh. Jehan makes a very sexy Joanne.





	baby, what's my sin?

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure ridiculousness, they are angels, I love them, they're making my hangover better. I don't think there's anything potentially triggering in this piece, but if I'm wrong let me know and I'll pop a warning up :).

_"every single day i walk down the street // i hear people say baby, so sweet"_

_~_ Take Me or Leave Me

**June 2013 | Edinburgh**

“Okay, _so,_ ” Courf says, linking one arm through Enjolras’ and one arm through Combeferre’s as they walk out of the Waverly Station. “The plan.”

“I thought you declared plans were the preserve of conservative bourgeois sheep,” Combeferre points out mildly, and Enjolras hides his smile.

“They are,” Courf swings an arm experimentally until Enjolras gives him a _look_ and he stops. “This is a p-l-n. There’s a difference.”

“So you finally read those books I lent you back in university, huh?”

“And I hope you don’t have delusions of getting them back, because it’s not going to happen.”

“Marianne might want to read them one day.”

“Your daughter is _two years old,_ Combeferre. Related to you she may be, but I don’t think she’s going to be reading chapter books for at least another two years. How is she, anyway?”

“She threw her pyjamas in the toilet the night before we left,” Enjolras says.

“She’s on a nudist streak,” Combeferre adds. “Apparently clothes are boring. Luckily there’s a heat-wave in Provence at the moment, so it’s probably the best time to run it out of her system.”

“Bet your parents are _loving_ that, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac turns them down a side road, under the shadow of the cliff with the castle mounted on it.

“My parents know when to pick their battles, they raised me and Cosette,” Enjolras points out. “And Fantine is more likely to join her than tell her off.”

“Fantine did,” Combeferre says. “I was just out in the garden with M. Javert looking at the vegetable garden and the two of them went shrieking past with not a piece of clothing in sight.”

“Fantine is my _hero,_ ” Courfeyrac fake swoons onto Enjolras shoulder.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Enjolras says.

“You told me long ago that if you weren’t there to witness it, you didn’t _want_ to know what Fantine does in her spare time.”

“True.”

“This way, guys, and that’s the cool theatre I was telling you about and…”

“You had a p-l-n that you were going to tell us.”

“I do!”

“And?”

“So, I know you’ve been travelling all day, but because you _finally_ came to see me here, I’m going to take you out to this cool slam poetry/music open mic thing that’s going on in one of the bars the younger mage community tends to frequent.”

“Sounds good,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras nods.

“That was far easier than expected,” Courf turns them again and stops in front of a row house in grey stone with a dark green door. The clouds shift above them, restless. Behind, a bike clatters past on the cobble stones.

“We’re on holiday,” Enjolras tells him. “And we’re trusting your taste has improved since university.”

Courfeyrac gives him a smile that says “oh just you wait” and fumbles for the door. Enjolras rolls his eyes and follows his friends into the hallway.

***

Courfeyrac’s taste has not improved. The bar is fairy-lit, painted an alarming combination of orange and teal, and covered in plant-pots. Enjolras sips at the ridiculous mocktail Courfeyrac ordered for him and watches the clientele, half-listening to the open mic and half-listening to Courfeyrac and Combeferre bicker. There have been about ten poets, a couple of singers, mostly mages. It’s nice, he thinks, to be in a city where the company of mages doesn’t mean sniggers and snide comments and the usual - oh, you’re from _that_ family, how _interesting,_ I wouldn’t think you’d show your face _here._

“You should _do_ it,” Combeferre’s saying, slurring some of his words. “We haven’t seen you do that song since graduation week!”

“Excuse you, was not my performance of Popular earlier enough for you, mister?”

“It’s not the best one in your repertoire.”

“ _You_ just want to see me make an idiot of myself.”

“Take Me or Leave Me is a classic. You sing Maureen _so well._ ”

“It’s also a _duet,_ darling,” Courfeyrac leans back on his chair. “Unless you want to come and sing it _with_ me?”

Enjolras laughs at the image of Combeferre, with his love of choir and classical music singing musical theatre, then suddenly becomes aware of a person at the next table listening, their head tilted slightly towards their conversation. Combeferre catches Enjolras’ eye, gives him a slightly significant look. _What,_ Enjolras mouths. Combeferre rolls his eyes and turns back to Courfeyrac, but before he can say something the person at the next table wheels themselves over and says:

“Well, I’ll sing it with you, if you’re so desperate for a partner.”

Enjolras watches Courfeyrac’s eyes go very round, the smug look that dashes quickly across Combeferre’s face. The person is small, pale, red-headed and red-lipsticked, sitting in a wheelchair decorated with rainbow lights, cloth flowers, and bizarrely a giant angler-fish looming over the back of it. Enjolras recognises them as the _amazing_ paean mage who’d kicked the open mic off, made it rain glitter with the weave of their words; the poem had been something about hope, something about injustice, and something about always finding a way. Courfeyrac had watched, absolutely enraptured; now, faced with this person away from their stage, Enjolras wonders whether he or Combeferre are going to have to answer for Courf.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says, his voice a little strained, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Let’s do it. I’m Courfeyrac, by the way. Ezequiel Courfeyrac, he/him. You?”

The person smiles. “Jehan Prouvaire, they/them. Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac gets up, with barely a backward glance at Enjolras and Combeferre. The two of them make their way over to the organiser, and Combeferre shifts along the bench to press his shoulder into Enjolras’.

“They kept staring at each other when they thought the other one wasn’t looking,” he says, quietly, taking another sip of his cider.

“You,” Enjolras takes his hand, twines their fingers together, “are a horrific enabler.”

***

“You’re French, then?” Courfeyrac says as they wait at the side of the stage for the last act to be done. The organiser had given them a look, said, “we were done for the night,” then back at Jehan, and gone, “okay, fine. But you owe me, Prouvaire.”

“Don’t worry,” Jehan had said, looking up at Courfeyrac with a smile that made Courfeyrac’s breath hitch in his throat, “we’ll put on a good show.”

Now, they fiddle with the end of their embroidered skirt, hum. “However did you guess?”

“The name was quite a giveaway, darling.”

“Darn, you’re onto me,” Jehan looks up at him through their eyelashes, and doesn’t look away. “Grew up between Paris and Genova, and then came here for university and haven’t left, yet. You?”

“Me?”

“A name like Ezequiel, a strong French accent…”

“Argentinian, but we left when I was small. Lived in Lyons for most of my life, went to Paris for university where I met those two,” he jerks his head in the vague direction of his friends, “and now studying under Adara Quinn.”

“The cryptozoologist?”

“The very same.”

“You get more and more interesting,” Jehan says, and Courfeyrac feels himself flush with pleasure. He’s about to ask what Jehan does apart from being an incredible paean mage and gorgeous as anything, but the singer is putting away her guitar and coming off the stage, and the organiser takes the microphone and says:

“So, looks like we have an encore. I’d like to welcome our very own Jehan Prouvaire back to the stage, with Mr Ezequiel Courfeyrac.”

Someone wolf-whistles, and Courfeyrac takes the proffered microphone, plugs his phone with the backing track into the speaker. Jehan wheels themselves into position on the other side of the stage.

“Are we doing the dialogue before?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Who do you take me for?” Jehan laughs. “Evening, _again,_ everyone! We’re going to close the show tonight with a song many of you will know, if not, get out and get a music taste you heathens - this is _Take Me or Leave Me._ ”

“I _love_ this song!” someone exclaims from over by the bar.

“I like you,” Jehan tells them, in the abstract. Courfeyrac fiddles with the microphone for a second, then pulls a chair over so he’s more on Jehan’s level, straddles it and rests his forearms on the back, glances over to see if Jehan is ready. They straighten, pick up their microphone and throw him an exasperated look:

“The _line_ is “Cyber Arts and its corporate sponsor, Grey Communications would like to mitigate the Christmas Eve riots.” Now _what_ is so _hard_ about that?”

“It just…” Courfeyrac tilts his head, tries to look as irritating as possible. “Doesn’t roll off my tongue. I like my version better. Yeah. You, dressed as a ground hog, to protest the ground breaking…what? It’s a _metaphor._ ”

Jehan snorts. “It’s _less_ than brilliant.”

“Okay that’s it, Miss Ivy League.”

“What?”

“Ever since New Year’s I haven’t said boo,” Courfeyrac stands, glares, wonders if he’s making up the appreciative gleam in Jehan’s eyes. “I let you direct, I didn’t pierce my nipples because it grossed you out! I didn’t stay and dance at the Clit Club that night because _you_ wanted to go home…”

“You were _flirting_ with the _woman_ in _rubber_!”

“Is _that_ what this is about? There will _always_ be women in rubber flirting with me, give me a break!”

The music starts, and Courfeyrac starts to sing, half-aware that there’s an audience watching and whooping in support, but the only eyes he cares about are Jehan’s, watching him as he shakes his hips, drops into a squat, flirts and winks and puts his all into it. He doesn’t think he’s making up the interest now, smiles at them in the way previous flings have said is hugely effective, feels his heart pound heavy and wanting against his ribs. Bless Maureen for being such a wonderful, _outrageous_ part to play, bless this whole fucking night. He shows off a bit at the end of his solo, skipping into falsetto and hears someone, probably Combeferre, whistle from the audience, slides onto the stage at Jehan’s feet: “Kiss, Pookie?” and from the look Jehan is giving him, Courfeyrac wonders whether they’re going to replace a pissed-off Joanne with a hopelessly turned-on one.

They don’t. Their Joanne is angry and glaring and it’s as sexy as anything; their voice is strong and clear and sends shivers down Courfeyrac’s spine, so much so that he can barely bring himself to interrupt them with Maureen’s snarky little asides. Then finally, _finally_ they’re singing together and facing each other, close and totally oblivious to everyone watching, and all Courfeyrac can do is watch Jehan’s face and hope he’s hitting the harmonies correctly because god that is _not_ what he’s thinking about right now. The energy transferring between them right now is nearly enough to knock him off his _feet_. “Guess I’m leaving,” Jehan says, wheeling themselves closer in the most hilarious contradiction of the century.

“I’m gone,” they say together, and then Jehan grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down for a kiss, hard and fast and hot.

“Get a room!” someone shouts.

They let go and Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, grins down at them; they’re beaming back. The organiser takes the microphone out of his hand.

“What do you think about coming back to my place?” Jehan offers, eyes not leaving Courfeyrac’s. Their lipstick is smudged.

“I don’t think that’s a question you even need to ask,” Courfeyrac says, wondering how the hell his night turned into this. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure Combeferre and Enjolras will mind in the slightest. “I need to give my house key to my friends, but then I’m all yours.”

Jehan’s eyes trail downwards briefly and back up. “I look forward to it.”

Courfeyrac swallows, and then jumps off the stage, weaves his way through the drunk crowd back to their table. “Having fun?” Combeferre asks, all too innocently, his dark eyes gleaming with alcohol and smugness.

“You _knew,_ ” Courfeyrac accuses. “Didn’t you?”

“Doesn’t take a genius to notice they were eyeing you up,” Combeferre shrugs. “Are you going back with them?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Courfeyrac returns, digging his key out of his pocket and putting it on the side. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah.”

“Have fun, be safe,” Enjolras says.

“Oh my god, you sound like such a parent. At least when Marianne’s pulling shit like this you’ve had practise on me. There is Spanish omelette in the fridge for tomorrow morning, you’re going to need to buy coffee. I love you both, bye.”

“Seven hours,” he hears Combeferre say to Enjolras as he leaves. “That must be a new kind of record.”

He throws them the middle finger but doesn’t think they see. Jehan is waiting by the door, swaddled in a huge rainbow knitted scarf. “You ready?” they say.

“Do you even need to ask?” Courfeyrac responds, holding the door so they can wheel themselves out, then taking their proffered hand. The light from the lamp-posts pools golden on the pavement, and they begin to walk.

“It feels as though something momentous is happening,” Jehan says, and Courfeyrac feels the weight of the energy they’re offering him, furling open like a daffodil in March.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac looks down at them, accepts the fact he feels like he’s just run straight off the edge of a cliff, “it rather does.”

  **[the end]**

**[or really...just the beginning]**

**Author's Note:**

> This was totally inspired by Aaron Tveit & Gavin Creel's rendition of this song, and Solshine's marvellous Jehan in "To Love and Say Goodbye (And Hello Again)" who says things like "feelings aren't for wusses". As always, love & thanks to Marie for enabling and beta-ing this, and the same to Hatty, who will always be the Maureen to my Joanne.
> 
> I have a Tumblr, come say hi: @barefoot-pianist.


End file.
